time spun by toy soldiers
by A Wish On the Moon
Summary: The history of Italia is not as weak as it appears. Most of the world has forgotten, but enough remember. The other countries dare not test the brothers, just as the global superpowers dare not test each other. History as seen through the eyes of Man — the hopes, the glories, and the deaths in-between.


**Disclaimer**: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

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><p><strong>i.<strong> **Italia**

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><p>The colors dance upon the canvas as he paints, humming, humming, humming, flecks of greens and golds splattering as he flicks the paint off the soft bristles. Some red colors the cave's entrance, enough that it contrasts with the soft shores he recalls, and he frowns, irked. It's not the desert he wants, nor the clay figurines of the Mediterranean.<p>

His gleaming eyes look back, back, back, to that time at the Church, to that time at the birth, to — that little, golden memory, hidden away in the depths of his history. He lets his mind wander as his hands stroke up, down, across, back and forth and back and forth. Slowly, quietly, wetly, the hues bleed into each other, and the water drips, drips, drips down the wooden brush he loosely holds.

He thinks of the sparkling sea at sunset, reflecting slivers of silver and white, even as the skies darken and the moon's shine takes hold. He thinks of the gray, gray fog, blurring all the silhouettes and shapes together as they clambered over broken rock and sturdy ships. He thinks of the dark sails and brown dust and sharpened metal, of the scent of Italia at war.

"Tch."

He hears the snort and his head snaps back, lightning-quick and with the crack of a whip. His bangs tickle his nose and his eyes are still closed, and he must look like the idiot he's fashioned himself to be, but he knows the voice, and he knows the speaker has never been fooled.

He still cannot help but make that small, somewhat whiny noise in question of the criticism.

"The scene's still too dark, _fratello_. The sun, it is supposed to be _rising_, _idiota_, not _setting_ into the shit-faced _ocean_."

Nodding along, he listens, an "Ah," escaping his lips as he allows the fingers not clutching the brush to roam over the textures. Too rough, too flaky. The bristles of the brush rub across the inside of his wrist as he thinks, thinks, thinks, before he shrugs and dumps the pot of water he's kept close by all over the piece.

Amber eyes snap open and quickly, quickly, before the precious liquid can dry, he drizzles dust and clay and rocks onto the bottom, and mixes the sky in even shades of pinks and reds. The figures on the shore become more human, more exhausted by battle and determined to fight, more everything and less of what he thinks he remembers.

There's a small grunt of approval by his ear and a hand on his shoulder, steadying him as he speeds through the scene they both know must never leave their borders, and he can't help but smile as the paint flies over his skin, dotting his face and streaking across his brow. Blood rests on his lips in a mockery of a kiss, and his eyes shine in unholy glee.

His brother soon leaves him to his work, leaves him with his staining skin and manic smile and unbridled happiness, and clutches the rosary beads safely hidden in the pocket of his pants. With the air of one who has seen far more than he could possibly have wished to, he stares resolutely ahead and allows but a small prayer to pass from his lips.

Italia has never been innocent, and his elder brother has always known that _his_ art had never come from mere practice. The paints, the figures, the canvas?

Lovino has always known of Feliciano's unhealthy love of the humans and the dead, always known just _where_, exactly, the colors Italia works with have come from. Despite this, he can't help but allow the goosebumps to race up his arms and the sweat to drip, drip, drip, each and every time he sees the reds in the painting and the decay mixed with the dirt on his brother's skin.

And though he may be harsher, rougher, _meaner_ than anything his brother would let others see, he has always been the more sacred of them both. It is Feliciano who begins the wars for the sake of Italia, his brother who laughs while he believes, and smiles in the face of death and despair and what he calls the _true _art of the nation.

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><p>Several hours pass before the painter simply <em>stops<em>. His hands hold the brush mid-streak, and his eyes lose focus, before he mechanically hides away his equipment and shrouds his canvas in silken drapes. The dust in the room breathes as the mad tension and fervor and passion of Italia is put to sleep, while the cool night air sings lullabies and sweeps away the settling debris.

Lovino finds him in the kitchen, mixing the sauces as the pasta boils, genuinely smiling. The tint of insanity seems…_smaller,…_somehow, and he allows himself to let down his guard enough to grab the dishes and set the table. The wines he'd made with Spain all those centuries ago are still fermenting in the cellar, but he thinks the taste is sweet enough, and the scent potent enough, that neither of them will really mind.

Frowning, he pours a bottle-full of the fruity kind that his brother loves so much, before thinking better of it and pouring the contents into an older, washed-out jar his brother had once used to mix his paints. He pours himself a separate, cleaner liter, one more _common_ than his brother's preferred brew, and sets both bottles to the side.

The scent of fine wine permeates the stone room, and the moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the stone outline his face. He breathes in deeply, trying to forget, forget, _forget_, even if only for a moment, the things that tie him down. He thinks back to the promise their grandfather had extracted from them so long ago, back to the parents only _he_ remembers and the faith only _he_ had been able to keep.

He thinks back, back, back, and snorts at the memory of everything, — of all the battles in the name of the Pope, of all the death in the name of God, of all the torture and insecurity in the name of the fall of an _Empire_, — and, smirking with humor that never, ever reaches his eyes, he thinks of how both of them had all gone wrong.

It's not as if he doesn't know, but he'd rather the truth _not_ ring of utter separation and torture. Italia had _fallen_, as young as he had been, while the country of ruin had been taken and _twisted_, fighting all the while. Lovino had been unable to keep Italia and himself together, unable to protect his brother from the sickness of being apart, and — Rome's other conquests had seen fit to restore Italia the only way they knew _how_.

And so, Italia had _forgotten_, left to his own devices and forced into the subjugation of the potato-bastards, forced into _liking_ being part of the Germanic Empire. Grateful as he was when Spain had saved him from the French pedophile, Lovino had been unable to save his brother, and thus, ultimately, his brother learned _alone_.

Then France helped them both gain independence, but — Sicily, sweet, sweet Sicily, had become twisted by Italia's bloody designs. Her brother made her the head of the murderers, while he, himself, became the grave-robbing artist of the North. Lovino was left with nothing more than his faith and insecurities, and he fell, fell, fell.

Scowling, Lovino shakes himself free of his thoughts. Climbing to his feet, he twists the stiffness out of his joints, grabs the two bottles of wine, and stomps up the stairs. By the time he's reached the floor, found his way around the scattered paints and brushes and sculptures on the stone, and stumbles upon his brother humming the Renaissance music he'd been thinking over just minutes ago, his mood has worsened, and he grumbles and groans his way to his seat.

Checking himself at the last minute, Lovino sighs, before gathering up both of their plates and taking them over to where Feliciano still hovers over his pasta. The minutes tick by on the sundial outside, even as the night hangs over its base, and he catches his left foot tapping away at the floor.

The smoke from the meal wafts as the flames burn at the metal pot, and he finds himself watching his brother as he chops up the onions and meats he's planned to serve as a side dish. The sweet, tangy glaze he'd made from the white wine they kept locked away in the kitchen has already drenched the salad in a viscous yellow, but the greens remain fresh, and Lovino can't help but be envious of how _easily_ creation comes to Feliciano.

Before he can dig himself deeper in his despair, Italia shouts, "_Ve_~!"

As if the silence could get to him as much as it got to his brother. Lovino doubts it.

Another exclamation of "_Ve_~!" has him grunting in answer.

When nothing but silence counters him, he looks up. "What?"

He receives nothing more than a knowing glance in reply, but it is enough to have him shaking his head and crinkling his mouth in a self-deprecating grin.

The mirrored expression on his _fratello_'s face has him smiling truthfully, before the laughter escapes. His sides shake, and he doesn't stop himself, can't help but think of how _ridiculous_ he is being, wondering about behaviors and fearing tortures he's long-since grown used to. This isn't _Ivan_, the monster, and definitely not _Belarus_. This was his brother, his friend, Italia's _other half_.

His brother joins in, and they both let go of their paranoia and regrets and madness, watching as it is whisked away by the gentle winds, and carried across the country. The insanity reforms itself into passion and secrecy, and the grounds of Italy _burn_.

Romano and Veneziano let their fires spread, and finally settle down to eat amongst the corpses of the dead.


End file.
